Make Pies and Bake the Dead
by ragnaroktopus
Summary: A crossover from the narrative perspective of Pushing Daisies, with alternate and integrated events from Hannibal. Ned the pie maker and Will Graham's worlds meet as two seemingly separate crimes become intertwined, leading to the strained yet crucial cooperation by the characters of both stories.
1. Chapter 1

Ned the pie maker had a special gift. Though as the questions of from whom, for what purpose, and with what power the gift was given continued to lack answers, the years passed and he learned to accustom himself to this questionable life. He had quelled the anticipation of answers to any of life's questions, questions of any size and weight, and instead he embraced the uncertainty of this curious existence. Or rather, he begrudgingly cohabitated with uncertainty, but the two eschewed physical affection. It was an anonymously gifted life, and as such the gift was his to do with as he pleased.

Ned was a re-giver of life, and within a minute, a re-taker of life as well. One touch and a dead body would spring to life, second touch and it would fall back into a state of un-animation. The gift applied to other flora and fauna as well, to dead leaves and to dead dogs, the first re-giving of life having gone to his childhood dog Digby after an unfortunate encounter with a car. The dog happily bounded away as nine-year-old Ned grappled with the immensity of his gift, its implications posed against the most pressing philosophical problems of postmodern times, and as such he was too preoccupied to notice the roadside possum that had suddenly decided to play dead - permanently.

The price of resurrection of any living thing beyond the time of one minute, he later realized, was the taking of life from another living thing of approximately equal value. Plants for plants, animals for animals - and unfortunately, people for people. The life was taken within an undetermined radius of the resurrected thing, so as Ned's mother was re-gifted life after a burst blood vessel in her brain, Ned's neighboring friend Charlotte Charles lost her father sixty seconds later. And in the most tragic of ways, the final caveat to the gift made itself known in the soft kiss upon Ned's cheek as his mother bid him goodnight.

And so it was that two children of Coeurs d'Coeurs lost parents on the very same day, from causes unknown to all but the boy himself, and as Ned was shipped off to boarding school Charlotte Charles, known as Chuck, was sent to the care of two eccentric aunts. Nineteen years later in separate lives and separate states, Ned had faced the facts and turned his blues into a business, and Chuck's face turned blue in the business end of a bag.

Yet the latter would not transpire for some time, and as it stood, Ned was still a tightly wound man of meticulously maintained boundaries, with his issues neatly folded under egg-washed dough. He was in the business of making pies, fruit pies of all varieties, colors, and tastes, as the smell of a freshly baked pie carried him back to a simpler time - a time with live parents and his mother's affectionate confections. It was a passion and a therapy that he could not afford to lose, and when business dwindled he found himself in an unexpected yet fortunate arrangement. Though pie-craving customers came and went with time, there was one business that could always be accounted for - violent crime.

Emerson Cod, private investigator and pie-indulger, discovered Ned's secret by chance, and the two formed a partnership that served justice on the side. Touch the dead, ask questions, and touch again to let the dead rest as the duo collected the culprit and split the sum of the rewards. The side business augmented the pie maker's pie-making, and the detective was pleased to have a partner who lived and breathed a quietly contained discretion.

And such were the circumstances that led Ned the pie maker to a morgue at the heart of the Baltimore city district approximately nineteen years, forty-two weeks, three days, four hours, and sixteen seconds after unwrapping the mysterious gift that life had given to him. And as was customary, Emerson Cod stood by his side, however begrudgingly so.

"We're looking at a male college student, age twenty-nine, burned to death two nights ago in his apartment," Emerson began, "Police think it might've been arson but my money's on an unfortunate accident." He glanced over at Ned. "Aren't you twenty-nine?

Ned's brows furrowed. "What are you implying?"

Emerson rolled his neck which let out a series of small cracks. "Nothing - just making small talk. It's a nice thing you're on your feet now, finished school, got yourself a business and all that. Super senior here still hadn't cut the cord yet. Three guesses who ordered the investigation."

"I'm guessing he wasn't self-sufficient?"

"Nope."

"So, we're talking to an independently-challenged man with parent issues who probably forgot to turn the gas off himself?"

"And then lit up a little something," Emerson said, "They found more than a few things in his system."

Ned sighed and reached for the corpse-drawer, as Emerson not very subtly inched back, his neck craning away from the overpowering aroma that filled the room. The body slide out on its slab, and Ned looked down upon it with the faintest fascination.

"Brother smells like a barbecue," Emerson winced and lifted his sleeve to his nose. "Guess you wouldn't know."

"I've been to barbecues," Ned said, "I've been to many gatherings that involved the cooking of things that used to be alive, but I don't partake."

"What would happen if you ate meat? You ever tried?"

"It's one of those things that I don't mind going my entire life without knowing the answer to and I would be content and satisfied and not feel that I ever needed to know at all.

"Yeah, yeah, live and let live." Emerson jerked a thumb at the body. "Let's grill this kid and go."

Ned clicked the timer on his watch and the small hand began its furious ticking. Emerson let out a long sigh and leaned against the wall, before realizing it was indeed the wall of closed body-drawers and he stood himself upright in a hurry. Ned held his pointer finger poised in the air, and he considered where to touch this body. He decided that a small and relatively un-cooked portion of the elbow would do.

First touch, life.

The body sat bolt upright with a speed that startled both Emerson and Ned, the latter regaining his composure fairly soon, while the former brought a hand over his poor pattering heart.

The space where the lips should have been parted, revealing a row of chalk white teeth, and the man swayed in his seat on the slab.

"Hey, are you here to hang? I can smoke you two out." The charred form said, the ghastly grin becoming increasingly more concerning. He reached out with a lightly crisped fist for a friendly bump to Ned's arm, but the pie maker twisted away, eyes flicking back to his watch.

"You've actually been, ah, smoked out, so to speak." Ned nodded at the outstretched arm, and the man withdrew, eyes staring with lidless surprise.

"Damn," he said, "I mean, I thought I was dying but you know how it is. You think you're dying, but you're really not."

"Right," Ned sputtered, eyes glued on the timer, "Did you think you might've left the gas stove on in your apartment?"

"What gas? "I had electric, man. I don't trust gas."

"There were gas stoves in your apartment," Emerson said, "Unless you're telling us those weren't your stoves, or that wasn't your apartment."

"There was a gas hookup, but nothing plugged into it. Maybe someone put new stoves in."

"That doesn't make any sense," Ned muttered, "Why would someone go through the trouble of putting new stoves in if they could just open the gas line?"

"Hold up, are you actually buying that this is arson?" Emerson said. "You trust druggie Dan? He probably didn't even cook for himself."

"I trust him enough to know the appliances in his own kitchen and right now I'm toying with the idea that a very clever person wanted to make this look like an accident."

"Whoa," the man breathed, "You're all pretty smart. Hey, how long do I get to-?"

With a quick flick of his finger, Ned tapped the corpse on the head and the body fell back on the slab. Second touch, dead again.

Emerson reached past Ned and gave a hearty shove to the drawer to send it sliding back into the wall with a bang. The two turned to leave and the bigger man sighed as the other began a chatter again.

"Inebriated or incapacitated or not, I think it's worth noting that the state of the kitchen doesn't match how it was in his most recent memory. Did they check for tread marks? Dust? Did they see how long the stoves had been there or if they'd been moved?"

"I don't think fire would be all that friendly with dust," Emerson said, "But I'm starting to think that's it's worth noting. See if we can get in there tomorrow and take a look at the place before they close it down. But hey, let's grab something to eat before we call it a night."

"My place?"

Emerson grumbled. "Guess I can't say no."

The Pie Hole stood proudly upon a corner in the downtown area, a sweetly scented lighthouse guiding Ned home through the Ocean of Unnecessary Attachments and back to the rock-solid land of freshly baked goods. The irony here though, was that the same gift that led to his mother's re-death and the orphaning of Charlotte Charles was in fact the same method by which he made his pies. Rotten and fuzzed fruits became fresh at his touch for the small price of a potted plant. In this sense he could not consume his own creations lest they turn to mold in his mouth, but this was the least of his concerns, for it was the act of making the pies that brought him his much-needed comfort.

The establishment employed one waitress by the name of Olive Snook, a petite woman with a chirpy voice and even chirpier demeanor. For Olive Snook, the great big Pie Hole pie was a beacon as well that guided her one lonely night to her current career. She poured her heart into The Pie Hole, or rather, into Ned, though her advances and affections went predictably unreturned. For it was that Ned was too polite to flatly turn her away, and Olive was too cheery to notice, so the strange charade continued to both of their frustration. Nevertheless, she was a determined worker, and genuinely kind, maintaining a friendly rapport with the customers that Ned wouldn't otherwise have. She worked the stage while Ned worked behind the scenes.

"You're back!"

Olive chimed from behind the counter, her high voice harmonizing with the bell above the doorway. She had been wiping down the countertop, damp dish towel in hand, when Emerson and Ned sauntered into the shop. At the first sight of these partners in crime, she bustled out onto the main floor and regarded them with a wave of the towel. A small smatter of water droplets flicked onto their faces, and she stood akimbo before them.

"Sooo?" her mouth curled into an impish grin, "How was your little walk about town? Standing on your feet okay?" She winked at the two.

Emerson blinked furiously, whether on account of the water or his now escalating irritability, as Ned discretely wiped a sleeve across his face. "We're fine, we had a beer. Two beers. That's, one beer each. Two in total." Ned said, and Emerson rolled his eyes.

At the sound of the pie maker's voice, a familiar form emerged from behind the counter. Tail wagging, and tongue flapping, Digby the dog padded up to Ned to sit quietly by his heels. Ned's discomfort dissipated at the sight of his old friend, and with the tip of his left shoe, he reached out and patted the dog with as much tenderness and affection a shoe could convey. On some level Digby must have understood the nature of their friendship, one doomed to physical deprivation, as he more than tolerated this unconventional petting and rather seemed to appreciate it.

"I didn't know Digby was helping out today," Ned said.

"I brought the pooch down after I closed shop," Olive said, and she crouched down to coo at the dog, "And what a good boy he's been, keeping me company when I'm left all alone in here, with no one to talk to but the walls."

Emerson mumbled indistinctly under his breath, and left Ned to sit in a booth by the window, grabbing a newspaper off the table to bury his attention in.

"So," Ned wrung his hands as Olive began to ruffle Digby's fur, much to the dog's delight. "No late-night customers?" He offered.

"Nah," Olive rose to her feet and brushed her palms off on her apron. "I mean, other than the one." She scrunched her nose and trudged to a nearby table, plopping the towel down to wipe in lazy circles. Digby trotted after her, and Ned trailed after Digby.

"The key lime creeper?" Ned asked.

"No, the rhubarb rambler," Olive said, "I can't decide which one is worse - a person who keeps coming back over and over and dropping cheesy one-liners to grab some poor gal's attention and doesn't let up, or a person who talks on and on about every little thing that happens in their life even when everyone stops listening and they know and we know that nobody's interested in hearing it but they just won't stop yapping?"

"What about both?" Emerson muttered.

"Heyyy," Olive's face lit up, and she turned to face Ned. "You know what? We should do a girl's night out, just the three of us, I know a great bar downtown that serves cute little mixed drinks and it's all within your price range." She bumped Ned on the arm with a small fist, though this time he was unprepared to twist away.

Emerson lowered the newspaper and peered over its edge. "Wouldn't that not be a girls' night out if you have the two of us going?"

"I didn't say all girls, there just has to be the one girl who the night belongs to." Olive straightened her back and puffed out her chest proudly. "So it's my night, and I get to decide what we do."

"So you can go alone and still have your girl's night out." Emerson said.

Olive scoffed. "Well aren't you a big old stick in the mud. Ned and I will go and we'll have a spectacular time without you and you'll wish you'd gone."

"Yeah, good luck son," Emerson said, licking his thumb to turn the page of his paper. "Is someone planning on getting me that pie?"

"Right," Ned whirled around to the back of the counter, and barrelled through the door to the Pie Hole kitchen. His footsteps faded into the freezer room, as the dining area was filled with only the faint rhythm of Digby's tail swishing back and forth across the floor, of Olive's towel wiping circles across surfaces, and the sole of Emerson's shoe tapping against the floor to an unheard tune. The three waited in this strange synchronization; three souls brought together under the mysterious spell of the pie maker. None looked at one another, even Digby had lowered his snout to the floor although his tail remained expectant. That is, until another sound chimed in.

The bell above the front door jingled as an unfamiliar figure entered the Pie Hole. Digby rose to his feet with nose stretched and sniffing, and both Olive and Emerson craned their necks toward the after-hours interruption. A man stood in the doorway, immobile.

"Sorry, the Pie Hole is closed," Olive said, "But we open tomorrow bright and early, in case you want to come by and try a pie. I can get you one of our take-away menus, hold on just a smidge."

She disappeared behind the counter and rummaged through unseen cabinets with a kind of carefree faith in mankind that Emerson had unfortunately lost years ago. The latter had not resumed reading, rather, he fixated his prying gaze onto the man who still stood dumbstruck in the open doorway. Mid-30's, white male, of casual dress with no abnormal markings or features, and altogether unremarkable and unnoticeable if it weren't for the unsettling way in which he simply did not respond. With the opening of the door and the bell's jingle, he appeared to have startled and adopted an expression of profound confusion that made his silence all the more concerning. One of Emerson's hands had begun a slow withdrawal into the lining of his coat and toward a handgun sheathed in a holster he had proudly knitted himself. The other still gripped the newspaper, masking his movement.

Digby, however, was of a different persuasion. After a few moments of sniffing the air, the dog approached the man and began a thorough going-over of his shoes, trouser legs, and the hands that hung limp at his sides. The man's right hand was wound tight in white bandages, though his left was unharmed, and before the man could address this new inquirer Digby's tail took up a slow wag.

"Found one!" Olive sing-songed, and she strode out into the dining area with paper flapping in hand. "Guess we should print more - lucky you, you get the last one."

She held out the menu for the man, and Digby let out a bark.

"Don't give him trouble, Digby," Olive said. "Are you a dog person? He's all over you - aren't you, boy?" Olive cooed at the dog. "Be good."

The man had not yet made eye contact with Olive, let alone looked in her direction, but at another yip of the dog he snapped into focus. With a few forced blinks, his gaze met hers for a moment before it jumped elsewhere, and he took the menu from her outstretched hand.

"Thank you," he said quietly. His words had a graveled quality, throat strained under the weight of his voice. The man rolled his lips inward to moisten them, and then turned his attention toward the decor of the Pie Hole, which he appeared to only just notice for the first time. Digby brought a wet nose to the bandages on the man's injured hand, as the man absentmindedly folded the menu into a pocket.

"I, ah," the man blinked hard, and his brows furrowed, "I keep dogs, but sometimes it seems as though the dogs keep me," he replied. Digby cocked his head to the side, in the curious way that dogs sometimes do. The man breathed out heavily and rubbed his left hand across his stubble and around drooping eyes.

"I take in strays, and numbers have climbed to a veritable wolf pack," he added. His gaze wandered around the room until it settled upon the clock on the opposite wall, above the doorway to the kitchen. The man's jaw tensed - his eyelids flickered in the incandescent light as the lump in his throat began bobbing.

"Do you know where the nearest bus stop is?" he asked, voice cracking. The man motioned with bandaged hand absently into the air beside his head. "I seem to have been turned around."

"No problem," Olive swept out her arm in wide gestures, as if directing traffic, "Just walk two blocks down this street, hang a left, and you'll be at the intercity stop."

"Thanks," the man nodded with clenched jaw, then ducked out of the doorway with a sudden urgency. Olive shuffled to catch the door as it swung shut and called after the man into the dark city air.

"Have a good night! Don't forget to come by tomorrow for our three plum pie!"

The pie maker whirled into the dining area with plate of pie in hand, and strode on flying feet toward Emerson's booth. The detective withdrew his hand from his coat, absent firearm, and folded up the newspaper onto the table.

"Sorry about the wait," Ned said, "The apple pies were pushed all the way in the back behind the cherry pies and the ovens had cooled down since closing." He placed the plate with steaming slice in front of his eager companion, who took up the fork as soon as it hit the table. Ned's brows furrowed and he motioned over to where Olive was standing by the front door, scratching her pointed chin in thought. "Did someone come in?"

"Mm," Emerson spoke through a half-chewed mouthful, "Some confused creep needed directions."

"Oh," Ned slid into the seat opposite Emerson and leaned back against the booth. He watched as the detective dug into the dessert, his mind revisiting the tired train of thought of what it might actually feel like to consume the pies that he created. Ned shook the idea from his head, ascribing this flight of fancy to a lack of sleep, and let out a low sigh.

Olive clapped her hands together with an "Aha!" that startled both Digby and Ned, though Emerson simply glanced up from under heavy brows, then resumed his meal. She bustled over to the booth and perched herself on the seat beside Ned, and he scooted down to give her room.

Olive leaned over the table and addressed Emerson in a conspiratorial tone. "I know where I've seen that guy," she said, "He's been all over ."

Emerson set down his fork on empty plate. "You know that site's just a bunch of nosy never-do-wells who want to make a buck off real police work."

"Well, yeah, isn't that what you two do?" Olive asked. Emerson opened his mouth to reply, though no sound came out, and Ned frowned and tilted his head in a "fair enough" way.

"We actually solve the crimes," Emerson retorted, "We don't just kick up dust and make someone else's job harder. Bunch of unconfirmed rumors muddling up the FBI's way, and you do not want to get in their way."

"Have you gotten in the FBI's way?" Ned ventured.

"Let's not go there," Emerson said.

They've got an informant on the inside," Olive insisted, "They say that man with the puppy dog face shot a girl two days ago while the real killer got away."

"You're saying a trigger-happy FBI agent just walked through that door," Emerson said, veins puckering on his neck, "And you gave him a menu and told him to come back here?"

"Well, everyone could use a slice of pie," Olive said, "And he's not an agent, he's a special consulting investigator or something like that."

"Like it matters," Emerson grumbled. The detective rose to his feet and shuffled sideways out of the booth, buttoning his suit back up. "I'm going to head home, we're on for noon tomorrow at the kid's apartment. I'll see if I can call in a few favors to get us a private showing."

"Right," Ned made to exit the booth, though he found himself caught between Olive and the wall, the former of whom had not yet decided to move.

A flash of amusement appeared on Emerson's features, though he repressed any upwelling commentary and instead made quickly for the door. He derived, as it were, no small amount of entertainment from Ned's discomfort, or that of anyone really.

"Take it easy, you two" he said. The bell above the door jingled as he departed into the street.

Ned wrung his hands above the table, as Olive let out a small sigh. Digby had positioned himself by the booth at the first whiff of baked goods, and was now entreating Olive for pets. The waitress stared down at the dog, and though she sat beside the pie maker and their arms were mere inches away, she still addressed the dog as her proxy for her affections towards Ned.

"You're a needy boy," she said, reaching down to pat him on the head. "Distant, but needy."


	2. Chapter 2

Detective Emerson Cod and pie-maker-turned-detective Ned arrived at the burnt boy's apartment to an unexpected scene. Rather than the usual slew of construction workers poking about the rubble, an entirely new team had taken over the premises. Cautionary tape had been drawn across the open doorway as officers and gloved agents ducked in and out of the hallway. The two sleuths exchanged concerned looks as a particularly brisk-footed investigator strode down the hall in their direction.

"Call me when Jack gets here," the woman called back toward the door. "And keep everything clean for Will."

Emerson caught Ned by the arm and in one fluid motion, turned upon his heels and pulled the bewildered pie maker around the corner into a side hallway. As the woman walked by, Emerson mimed fumbling for keys at the nearest door until she passed out of sight. The detective leaned against the wall and let out a sigh.

"I thought you said you'd get us a private showing," Ned whispered, glancing behind him with brows stitched with worry.

"Yeah, until the big guns showed up," Emerson said. "It goes without saying that we may not be welcome anymore."

"But we're employed by the family of the deceased," Ned said. Emerson had begun to peer cautiously around the corner, leaning out just far enough before bobbing back, and he repeated the motion over again. At Emerson's continued lack of reply, Ned hissed into his ear. "Emerson!"

The detective startled and shot an irritated glance at Ned, before resuming his peeping. "People are usually persuaded to drop their PI's once the FBI steps in, so we may be out of this job." Ned's face turned flour-white at the word "FBI," though Emerson continued, oblivious to his associate's bubbling panic. "The law says they don't have to, but that depends on who you call the law."

"Goodbye, Emerson," Ned said with as much voice as he could muster, and he made as if to leave before his companion caught him by the sleeve again and reeled him around. The pie-maker unwillingly turned about to face the now fuming Emerson, his face turning into a hopeless pout.

"Ned, I need you on this case," Emerson urged, though Ned's expression continued to droop. "Until we get that call telling us we've been dropped, we solve this right and we solve it fast, and we beat these lab monkeys at their own game."

"I can't, I cannot, I won't," Ned stammered, "Do you know what would happen if I'm caught by the FBI? They'd all...swoop down upon the Pie Hole to peck around and follow the trail of crumbs to my secret I'll be locked up in a lab somewhere next to the Area 51 aliens."

"Ned," Emerson commanded, his glare becoming stone, "Forget about pies. Think about the crispy kid sitting on a slab and the two of us bringing his killer to justice. Walk with me, and follow my lead."

With an instantaneous change in demeanor, Emerson turned up the collar on his coat and strode boldly down the hallway with heels pounding upon the floor. His gaze was pinned forward, with the look of a man on a mission and who would without question bowl aside anyone caught in his path. Ned groaned and rubbed his face in agitation, before slipping out around the corner to follow his partner. With a brief half-jog he fell into step beside PI-turned-FBI as the two approached the fresh-faced officer at the door, who had about him a fortunate air of inexperience. Pie maker and private eye stood square-chested, arms stiff at sides, in front of the unsuspecting man.

"Move," Emerson rumbled. The officer gave a nervous nod and stepped aside from the door. Emerson ducked under the caution tape and Ned flashed a quick smile to the officer, who hesitantly returned one in kind, before he crouched down to slip through the doorway. Ned sidled up to Emerson and the detective adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, holding them up for examination to mask the movement of his mouth.

"The one nice thing about people is if you act fancy, they treat you fancy," Emerson muttered. "You can get into just about anywhere with the right attitude. Gotta love human nature."

"It sounds like you're exploiting human nature," Ned whispered in reply. Emerson declined to respond, and instead directed his focus at the scene about them.

"We have five minutes tops before the regulars realize that something's up," he murmured. "Most are local police who haven't seen FBI before - so avoid the ones in gloves."

The apartment was, neglecting the fact of the fire, a shabby place with sparse furniture, and only minimal space for living. There was the living area where the man had ironically died - a crisped carpeted floor with the burnt remains of a mattress lying in the center. A small charred table stood beside the mattress, littered with a crowded collection of glass objects and implements that were each accompanied by a numbered tag. The living area opened up into the kitchen with an abrupt transition to linoleum floor, as a small area with little room for movement or advanced cooking, as it were. On the opposite side of the room was an open door, presumably what was once a small bedroom, but a quick glance inside revealed a cluttered assortment of unused exercising equipment, a sofa, and a large television set.

"Living the high life," Emerson muttered. The two meandered toward the kitchen area, Emerson making a pointed effort to appear to scrutinize his surroundings on the way over, and Ned followed suit with a particularly thoughtful frown. Once arrived, they crouched down on the floor and tilted their heads sideways in unison, peering at the small stove-oven combo against the wall.

"Where did the electric one go, and where did this one come from? Another apartment?" Ned whispered.

Emerson winced. "Would've been too risky to steal from another apartment, unless the killer lived on this floor and switched his with burnt boy's."

"Well," Ned paused, pantomiming his thoughts with his hands, "The gas hook-up in the back means that there were gas stoves in here at some point and they were switched out, before being switched back in," he said. "The victim never used it but who's to say a previous tenant didn't?"

Emerson shot Ned a sideways glance. "You're thinking there was an extra stove lying around?"

"One that he didn't care to use," Ned suggested.

Emerson's eyes swept around the room, his jaw working in slow circles, before his gaze fell upon the kitchen countertop. A small number card had been placed next to a keychain, the accessories of which had thoroughly burnt, though the metallic keys remained intact. The detective dove into a coat pocket and drew out a single black glove which he slid over his right hand, and he slowly rose to his feet. Ned followed as Emerson strode by the counter, hand gliding over the surface until it deftly dipped down to snatch up the collection of keys.

The two made their way back out the front entrance and down the hall, Emerson jingling the keys in his hands until they were standing back around the corner where they had hid before. To Ned's surprise, there stood the door to a communal storage unit. The pie maker leaned toward the ground to examine the carpeted floor, and his breath caught in his throat as he noticed the tell-tale signs of a rather heavy object having been dragged out of the closet. He caught Emerson's gaze, and with a nod the latter flipped through the loop of keys to find one that seemed to match the make and style of the lock on the door. Ned rose, legs shaking with the buzz of an investigation underway, as the detective slid the key into the lock began to turn his wrist.

"You're not Will."

The men jumped, and Emerson hurriedly stuck the cluster of keys back in his coat pocket, keeping his gloved hand inside. They turned around to face the source of the voice, Ned folding his arms rather suddenly across his chest in feigned nonchalance as Emerson leaned with one arm against the doorway.

The person standing before them was the investigator who had passed them in the hallway before - FBI by the gloves on her hands, which now held a large professional camera with a flash mounted on top. She looked Ned up and down, then her inquisitive gaze settled on the detective with the turned-up collar. One eyebrow arched.

"And you're definitely not Jack."

Emerson's lips remained pursed, as he found himself at a familiar fork in the road. Having been confronted in this act of exploiting of human nature, and perhaps several before, he knew that his next response was vital if he wished to sidestep any oncoming repercussions. Namely, he was presented with three possible paths out of these all-too-common quandaries, which were made more or less reasonable by the circumstances which he barrelled into. He could continue the ruse, which might require more tact than Ned and Emerson could conceivably produce between them; fess up, which could prompt either mercy or justice; or they could simply run.

But Ned was a man of singular motivation.

"I'm Ned," the piemaker said, his face drained of its juices, "And I was not a willful participant in any underhanded investigations that my colleague may have initiated at this location."

"Underhanded-?!" Emerson hissed. The FBI agent's lips curled up in wry amusement as the meeker man of the two wilted under the other's flaring eyes.

"I didn't want to come here, I apologize for any problems we may have caused," Ned said, as Emerson fumed in silence. "And I would like to return to my pie shop now," he added, his voice falling to a weak whisper.

The agent's head cocked in part bafflement, part curiosity, before she let out a scoff and shook it slowly as if to clear it. She placed one hand on her hip and addressed the piemaker with renewed sternness. "Alright, Ned, does your friend know that it's a federal offense to impede an investigation?"

Emerson let out a defeated gust of air through his nose, and finally arose out of his simmering state. He had decided that now was perhaps the best time to take the responsive reins, and intercept the inquiry aimed at his very increasingly weakening companion.

"Private detective Emerson Cod," he said, voice level, "And my associate. We were hired by the family of the deceased to determine the nature of the victim's death."

Ned nearly melted with relief, sinking back against the wall, and the agent appeared pleased by the detective's sudden forthrightness. Although, some small measure of entertainment seemed to be lost in Ned's silence.

"The case is no longer under local police jurisdiction, it's been passed off to FBI," she said sternly, "Until you've been cleared by us, you can't be on the premises."

The detective frowned. "Somehow I don't think we'll be cleared," he muttered, more to Ned than to the agent. But a thought fell upon him, and he turned back to the agent, venturing out on a dubious limb. "You know," he said, "For being such sticklers for protocol, you sure seem to skirt around the rules for Mr. Wolf Pack."

The agent's brows rose, and she repeated the words incredulously. "_Wolf Pack._"

"Yeah, a little chirpy bird said that your guy shot someone and you still have him sniffing around for you," Emerson added, boldness growing in his voice. "Sniffed all the way downtown, in the middle of the night." His tongue flicked out to wet his lips, and he crept up to the very edge of empty space. "So, how crazy do you have to be to work with the FBI?"

The agent bristled. Ned's eyes rolled up into his sockets before he closed them shut, and he braced himself against the wall, mouth conducting in slow silence the movements of every known curse word to the tune of the private detective's name.

"Look," the agent began, a resounding chord having been struck, "I'm not going to debate the merits of specialist Will Graham nor the FBI with two washed-up investigators who can't even go through the proper channels to do their job." Her eyes flicked between the two, though Ned refused to meet her gaze, and had not done so for some time, and Emerson's newfound boldness evaporated as quickly as it came.

"I'm going to ask you to leave before Jack Crawford gets here to strap you with litigations for obstructing the justice, and you should sincerely hope that that's all he does."

"Thank you, Katz," a voice said, "That'll be all."

Special agent Jack Crawford, with a presence that descended like a flood, emerged from around the corner of the hallway to stand squarely behind his agent. The latter strode away absent words before neither Ned nor Emerson could register the new man's appearance, and she vanished into the whirl of FBI activity without venturing a glance back. The imposing figure before the two sleuths folded his hands together in front of him, in what under other circumstances could have been a gesture of genuine respect. But considering that they were the hands of this particular man, it did nothing other than give off the sole impression of a cat feigning self-restraint with a mouse dangled in front of it.

"Now," the man began, turning to Emerson with a voice tempered by a depth and slowness that compounded the dread in Ned's pattering heart. "You're that PI who got wrapped up in our business before, if I'm not mistaken. Fish? Fisher?"

Emerson's jaw drew tight. "Cod."

"Cod, that's right," the man's mouth stretched in a derisive grin, and it was abundantly apparent that this amusement was his alone. "It's funny, how we keep running into each other in the most unlikely of places." Emerson's mouth had sealed shut, and the man leaned forward, bringing his head toward the PI, as his voice sank to a bone-rattling rumble.

"If I so much as see you, hear you, smell you, or even sense you within a hundred yards of one of my crime scenes again, I swear with my hand to God that I will personally dismantle your investigative career and ensure that you are blacklisted by every firm, every PI directory, every department under my control and every conceivable avenue of service that utilizes whatever piss-poor excuse for investigative experience you might have, so that the only career you will be capable of maintaining is the one where you get to wear a grease-stained dirt-encrusted apron in the back of a burger joint at a highway rest stop scraping two nickels together, until you hear from down the long chain of command that Jack Crawford says that you are allowed to have anything more than that."

The buzz in the hallway had stilled. The agents seemed to be moving in slow motion, mouths unmoving, and Ned locked eyes with Katz from where she stood staring in disbelieving silence. Emerson had not turned away from Jack, and still met the larger man's gaze.

"Are we clear?" the man asked.

"Crystal," Emerson wheezed. Without a further word, he departed down the hallway, and Ned's legs moved of their own accord to follow after. Eyes pinned them in from all directions until Jack's voice boomed throughout the hall calling for them to resume their work - though the words ceased to make sense as Ned's head rang and all comprehensive capacities had utterly fled his mind.

Emerson maintained a quick pace toward the staircase, scarcely needing to dodge other moving bodies as they quickly parted in front of him. As the two began to descend, a familiar figure passed them on the way up, sidestepping from the unresponsive Ned whose eyes were glued to the steps below. The man did a double-take back at the two excluded investigators, his brows stitched in a crooked seam. The two disappeared below, the door to the ground floor slamming shut with an echo.

"Decided to join us, Will?" Jack asked loudly, though more as an announcement than an actual inquiry.

"I apologize for my delay," the man said, stepping onto the second floor landing. "Though I might be more accurate in assuming that you're referring to my absence yesterday, rather than my lateness today."

"The medical examiner says you never showed at the city morgue last night," Jack said. "That was your opportunity to have a preliminary look at the body before its burial."

Will arrived in front of Jack and sighed, unaware of the other man's already thread-thin patience. "There's not much to look at with a burnt body," Will replied impassively, his eyes wandering with an unfocused glaze.

Jack's voice rose in volume. "_That doesn't mean you flake on an appointment without letting one of us know._" Will's head turned from the sound, and he blinked rapidly in what was the nearest he would come to an expression of deference.

"Now, I can delay the release of the body and have it shipped to our facilities if we find reason enough to do so, but the last thing I need right now, other than an unresponsive specialist, is another bereaved mother haranguing this department for the body of her child," Jack warned.

Will's eyes showed a gleam of newly-formed moisture, and he distractedly passed his good hand across his mouth and nose. "Where is Abigail Hobbs?"

"We've released her body from Quantico and it's awaiting transfer out of the Baltimore morgue tonight, headed home for the funeral." He turned in the direction of the ash-filled apartment, yet Will did not move to follow. Jack pivoted back to address his immobile companion in a low tone.

"If you are in any way unreasonably shaken by what happened to the daughter of Garrett Jacob Hobbs and you are incapable of working for me in a consistent and reliable manner, you will let me know," Jack said. "You go see Dr. Lecter and you take some time off, because none of us wants a repeat of that incident weighing down the bureau."

Will squeezed his eyes shut in sudden frustration, an anger rising in his voice. "It wasn't an incident," Will said, lips twitching in a suppressed snarl, "It was a tragedy that I alone conducted for a girl named Abigail Hobbs, not simply the offspring of a killer or a nameless corpse but a person in her own right, and her life has been forfeited because of my lack of foresight." His bandaged hand shook. "The weight falls upon me."

"And I am not letting you bear that weight alone," Jack urged. "You lean on me, you lean on Dr. Lecter, you do what you need to do so that you can stop more people like her father from inflicting that same tragedy on others."

"And yet he remains free to continue inflicting," Will said, his agitation having not abated.

"Not if this leads somewhere," Jack said. "Will, if this victim actually witnessed Cassie Boyle's death in Minnesota five days ago, and if his death is not just an untimely coincidence but Garrett Jacob Hobbs wiping the slate clean, this might just be the key we need to catch him before he kills again."

"I'm not in the least convinced that Garrett Jacob Hobbs orchestrated the death of Cassie Boyle upon the stag's head," Will said. "It was barbaric."

"And if your copycat theory is right, then we'll still be one step closer to stopping another killer," Jack said. "Come on, I need you at this scene."

"Another killer," Will repeated hollowly, uprooting his feet to follow. "I'm only interested in the one."


End file.
